


Blind Spot

by sara_no_h



Series: Coming Full Circle [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Drug Use, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Fix-It, Implied Mpreg, Infertility, M/M, Mates, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_no_h/pseuds/sara_no_h
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking the events of Series 3 and giving them an A/B/O twist.  Sherlock Holmes is back, but he’s not the same after two years of playing ‘hide and seek’ with Moriarty’s men. Two years can change everything. Covers and takes into account all three episodes of series 3 of Sherlock.</p><p>(Revised 1/7/2017)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Empty

**Author's Note:**

> There will be original script dialogue taken and sometime manipulated to fit the AU of this story. I hope it's not too much of a bother. I just really wanted to use the original script, it has so much potential and foreshadowing that moves my plot along.

 “…is at 79%. In fact, the probability of an impending heat is even more unlikely to occur, Mr. Holmes.”

It was impossible to miss the apathetic tone in the doctor’s voice. The man was delivering news of infertility, nothing new, especially since the once imbedded suppressants were known to cause sterilization and infertility to any secant gender. They had been strong, dulling every one of his biological reproduction functions, but they had been indispensable these last two years.

Sherlock sat stiffly in the chair across from the doctor; face clean shaved, hair freshly cut, while new fitted clothes adorned his too thin figure. Mycroft had insisted he have a full medical exam, worried about the time he’s been ‘gallivanting access the continents.’

As a born Omega Sherlock knew the risks of such potent suppressants and he had not cared, too absorbed in the mission, of eroding Moriarty’s network, dismantling it layer by layer until the foundation itself cracked. Extinguishing it until there was nothing left of the man. No more would that name be whispered in shadows because Moriarty was defeated and it was over.

Sherlock remembered it well then.  It had been his last mission, the one he was nearly finished with, the one where he’d beaten in front of his own brother. He had felt it; a tiny numbing in his left arm as one of the four imbedded suppressants had broken, secreting its poison into his blood. At the time there was no immediate damage.

Until now.

He had underestimated how much he wanted a children until the biological function was rendered mute.

Suddenly he feels empty.

*

Sherlock wants to see him, his once Alpha, John. He put aside the details of his failed biology, daring not to dwell on the throbbing pain that had settled in his chest since learning of it, but seeing John would eradicate some of that, he knew. The Omega part of him would be pleased, lifted from its melancholy state, once it was in the presence of his past mate. The deteriorated bond would certainly begin to mend itself.

He feels the longing not only in his body but in his mind as well. He needs to see the other man, to solidify that they are both real, alive in this wonderfully dangerous and chaotic world. Besides, he wants to tell the Alpha how he did it, outsmarted the Napoleon of crime.

John would be pleased.

He craves an audience, but most of all he craves the attention of John.

Sherlock knows the other man will want to see him as well, possibly even start up right from where they left off, maybe not as such intimate partners, not right away. Certainly as friends for he was, after all, John’s life.

His thoughts drift to his speech, the one where he would reveal himself. Silently he locks away the thoughts of his damaged body; there was no need to tell John that, at least not right away. The man did not need to know and besides, John already knows of Sherlock’s disdain for his Omega reproduction ability.

* 

Suddenly Sherlock is fearful. It’s heated uncertainty shifting his natural scent, curling around the table at the restaurant. Seeing John after so long disarms him; that hideous mustache was almost a relief, as it was something to distract him. He could still feel it, that electric energy that shot through his spine when their eyes locked. Even after two years, it was still there. His Omega instinct nearly wept, but he pushes that behavior away. Always in control. Especially now, when he needs it most.

John looks livid.

Sherlock looks away, reforms his jumbled thoughts and dabs his superficial disguise with a napkin, a parody to complement John’s accessory. His poorly worded speech was nothing like his pre-established one, this one, this atrocious one, falls from almost stuttering lips.

Anxiety makes him uneasy, he tries to judge the reaction of John; however, he doesn’t allow his gaze to settle on the other for too long. To strip him bare and deduce what his absence had done to his once Alpha as the weight of two years settles thickly between them.

Perhaps it has been too long?

He takes a ragged breath, finding a distraction in the women who sat at John’s table. She has kind eyes and Sherlock feels a shock go through him. It’s a distraction and the next thing he knows he’s being thrown onto the ground, John having completely flown off the handle.

_Two years isn’t that long, is it?_

A gasp escapes his throat as his back, still mending itself, makes unforgiving contact with the marble floor. He let’s it come, though, he had too. John was angry. So very angry.

*

It isn’t until John is hailing his cab that Sherlock realizes it. How sincerely sorry he is and how he was in the wrong; nothing will be like it was. John’s anger is nothing like he’d imagined.

He needs more time to reestablish and salvage a connection. He did not have all the data and he needed facts.

Sherlock turns to the other, the Alpha female, Mary. He looks at her and smells it, her sent. More precisely the scent she shares with John. Their mixed scents that label her as his companion, his equal, and partner in every sense of the word.

His gut clinches at the thought. Two years had been far too long. He had ignored so much. What was the true extent of the damage? First his body and now his companion; would it ever end?

Ignoring the thoughts that formulate he holds the bloody tissue away from his nose, looking away from the woman and out onto the empty sidewalk.

She says something about human nature.

Sherlock frowns. How could he understand human nature when he barely understood the nature of their second genders? Omega, Alpha, Beta, what did it all amounts to? Everyone was unpredictable. There was not normal nature to a second gender.  He, an Omega, ignores his instincts, and only sees logic. It was rational, and the only natural choice to make.  Instinct blinded you while data gave you the truth.

Her voice was kind, “I’ll talk him around.”

Sherlock looks to her and let’s it happen. He ignores his instinct that she’s his replacement. All the data aligns before him. Yes, there was something about her. He decides he will like her. 

For John.

The Omega rages at the thought. Sherlock cringes, and ignores the instinct to walk in the opposite direction as then, down the deserted street to his empty flat.

*

Mycroft comes around and they play their games. Watching his brother deduce was always fascinating, but this time he saw his flaws, his weaknesses. Big brother did not know everything. It was there, plain as day.

Loneliness was its own isolation.

Mycroft claims he wasn’t lonely, but how could he know?

When the older man left Sherlock places his hand on his middle and looks to the other chair, empty. He jerks upright than, arms falling to his sides, half-listening to the chatter of Ms. Hudson. No, he told himself. There was always more. He knew what fulfilled him.

Looking to the far wall he saw it, the work. It was always a constant and it would never leave.

*

Molly comes in quietly. Her eyes were warm and she still looks beautiful after two years. When she moves light catches the sun and he sees the ring, only for a moment, than it was back in shadow.  He would have to remember to congratulate her.

She was always willing to help. An Omega herself, it was easy to cater to her devotion to him born from a lingering appreciation and sexual attraction. He wonders how long it will take her to hate him. His manipulation was not subtle. He knew it was cruel.

“Would you like to…” His voice is timid and he looks down. He hops today would not be the day she denies him. He needs an assistant; he could not do this alone, not anymore. What better way to give back than to show her that she was his Ace in the hole?

She interrupts, “have dinner?”

 “…solve crime?” he finishes. 

*

_“Show Off.”_ John says, but it’s only in his head. He tells himself to ignore it.

He can’t.

Lestrade’s voice is hesitant, afraid he might offend as he asks, “So, John?”

Sherlock’s quick to respond, his grip on the tweezers tightening, is it not obvious to the other man, “Not really in the picture anymore.” Why does he hear him now? Why is his voice the most dominant? Why couldn’t his instinct just let it go?

_“Jealous?”_

“Shut up!” He mutters back, words forced through teeth, the fact that he’s surrounded by dust, a befuddled detective inspector, and a trying Molly does not stop him.

He might look like he’s going insane but then again he’s given up trying to convince people the opposite.

It’s all a setup, the skeleton and the room itself. The book confirms it. A fake crime. A superficial fabrication.

Just like John’s voice in his head. 

Nothing was solid; nothing but the regret and guilt, that was establishing itself into his mind.

*

He has to save John Watson.

There’s a cheer as the wood is set ablaze. The text message becomes clear, ‘heating up,’ it was the bonfire.

Words escape him, “Oh, my God,” but his thoughts are another, _Please, God, let him live._

Sherlock and Mary are both off the bike, but the crowd, the crowd was not parting fast enough.  He shouts and they need to move-now!

He does not feel the heat of the flames around him, only the solidness of John’s skin through his black leather gloves as he pulls him out of the blaze.

Sherlock cradles his face now, calling John’s name as confused eyes briefly meet his before sliding to Mary.

No, it was him who saved John.

The Omega withers, why did he have to look away?

Could he not see?

*

Sherlock doesn’t go to the hospital; instead he returns to the empty flat of Baker Street and thinks.

He comes to comprehend that a life without John is unacceptable and so he spends the night pacing, attempting to understand _why_ John was the target. Who did this? Was this aimed at him personally or Mary? The message was sent to her phone in skip-code. Whoever sent it to Mary might know that she’d contact him, though. But why?

How did she know what a skip-code was?

Not knowing all the data was the most aggravating thing. His head was starting to ache. He started from the beginning. Mary must have been close to Baker Street she-

He stilled midway through his pacing, back straight as a sensory memory surfaces. The stairs, Mrs. Hudson’s voice had been confused, a question, and then, _“I’m his fiancée.”_

_Oh._

He looks around the darkened flat, the only light coming from the streetlight outside the windows, his eyes gliding over the various surfaces before settling on John’s chair.

There was dust that had settled along the high-back and he was tempted to reach out, pluck the blemish from the cushions, but he couldn’t move.

*

His parents prattle on and on. He steeps his hands and rests his chin on his fingertips, eyes closed and mind expanding. He catches stray words and then he’s up, eyes fixed on the clues and pictures. “Did you find it then? Your lottery ticket?”

Their voices are mixed and he reaches out, fingers press against a photograph and he’s distracted again. It’s a wonderful think, being distracted.

Suddenly the door opens without a knock, confident. Not a client, someone who knows this flat, who has the permission to be so bold.

Sherlock turns. “John.”

“Sorry, you’re busy,” He says, indicating the two aging individuals on the couch. A multitude of voices fill the room but Sherlock can only hear, “No if you got a case.”

“No case.” Sherlock grins, feeling giddy. He deduces and knows John’s here to see him, to participate and he’s giddy, ignoring the suddenly noisy room to shove his parents out the door.

His mother’s foot blocks the door from closing and Sherlock sighs. “Ring up more often, won’t you?”

His father is insistent. “She worries.”

Sherlock chances a look behind him and sees John has his back to them, giving them an illusion of privacy. He lowers his voice, “I promise.”

Smiling his mother reaches up and strokes his cheek. Her voice is soft, “Is that _the_ John-”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock mutters and shoves the door closed and leans against it. She only meant to sooth, but it was infuriating. To be coddled like a child. He watches John turn and feels his heart race. He rolls his eyes and steps into the room. “Just my parents.”

The shock on John’s face was worth it even at the embarrassment. His cross indeed.

John narrows his eyes. “Did they know too? That you spent the last two years playing hide and seek?”

Sherlock breaks his gaze, picking at imaginary dust on his laptop. “Maybe.”

From his peripheral, he sees John’s eyes slide to the door and a look of sadness.

“Sorry. Sorry again.” He takes a breath and meets John’s eye. The meaning is not lost, no matter how many times he says it. “Sorry.”

John draws a deep breath and Sherlock feels himself still, not knowing where this is going. The two of them standing, unable to leave the small orbit of each other. He meets those blue eyes once more and feels a pull at the corner of his mouth.

“I see you shaved it off.” He says and John’s face opens slowly. The grin of his lips, the way his shoulders slump into a relaxed pose. An Alpha in a familiar Omega’s space. He walks carefully; seating himself back into the chair was his.

“Last night,” John asks, “who did that? Why did they target me?

“I don’t know.” Sherlock says and turns to the wall. He begins to explain the information. He needs an audience. Not for the recognition.

Speaking aloud always made things clear.

*

They are in the underground Tube station and it’s all a trick.

Yes, it’s all a trick; however, it’s a necessary because he _needs_ John to understand. That inner instinct, the primal Omega part of him, needs to know that John does not hate him, that the Alpha still cares.  The urge to bare his throat is almost overwhelming; he ignores it, and bows his head, submission and guilt thudding through his veins.

Could John smell it?  Were the pheromones not strong enough? Then again, they too had been damaged these last two years.

Sherlock’s eyes water, “Forgive me. Please, John, forgive me…for all the hurt that I caused you.”

The Alpha does not give him what he needs and Sherlock changes tactics, “You could still have a future with Mary.”

The Alpha turns and points to him, voice tight, “I know.”

The moment rises and the words come out, strained as fear radiates from John’s body, “-wisest man that I have ever known.”

No, he thinks. Not wise, not wise at all. How could a wise man allow a dead man to control him? To drive him to exhaustion and push his body beyond repair. How could he have allowed that same dead man to fulfil his prophecy, to _burn_ the heart out of him? Then again, it was he who did that, leaving his heart behind as he did everything he could to destroy an advisory. He wondered if Jim Moriarty watched him dance from his residence in Hell.

“Yes, of  _course_  I forgive you.” John finishes and Sherlock slumps in relief.

After a moment, he raises tear filled eyes, fake because of the trick. Half of him wants to weep and the other, the Omega is satisfied at its Alphas forced confession.

Sherlock giggles then, breaking the tension.

At least he has John back.

For the moment.


	2. Sign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The signs were there how could he have missed them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: No stag night; however, there is something else to fill that gap. Mind the rating!

Even as Sherlock has Mrs. Hudson on semi-permanent mute, her voice still manages to reach him from time to time.

“The end of an era.”

Yes, why did she have to keep talking? He already knew what the impending marriage day held; could she not leave him to it? He was already fighting his instinct as it was.

Perhaps she knew?

No.

She can’t. She was a Beta.

He escapes to his room, shutting the door on her and blocking her constant babble, the demand for biscuits not even registering to her.

He throws his dressing gown over the bed and ignores his hunger to focus on the suit, his back deliberately turned to the bed. He couldn’t stand the sight of it, let alone the smell, even after the sheets had been stripped and washed.

The bed holds too many memories. The government issued doctor had claimed one thing and yet Sherlock's body, so unlike his mind, rebelled at the data before it. Only eight days prior, he had felt it. It came to him in the morning, a deep cramping of his middle. Through sweaty bangs, he’d stumbled into the bathroom, preparing to vomit. Nothing came.

Instead he'd splashed cold water onto his face and entered the shower, only to feel a distant tugging that was not altogether uncomfortable. Then the familiarity of it all had hit him. He was feverish but it was not actually unpleasant.

He was in heat.

He’d cursed and slipped out of the shower. Drying he saw the evidence slick on his inner thigh.

A heat. How could be have missed the signs? The constant need to be around his Alpha and the urge to please the other man’s mate, it all made sense now. He cursed again, feeling the rush of pheromones and pleasure ripple through him. How was he going to do this alone?

But then he had not suffered it alone, had he?

In the present, Sherlock shivers. His stomach giving a grumble of protest. He sighs, ignores it and squares his shoulders, “Into battle.”

*

It’s easy to be John’s best man, to be his friend; he simply has to keep him at a distance, as if he was watching the wedding vows through a telescope and John was another planet entirely. Yes, he knew the metaphor was astrological. John would not appreciate it, though, if he shared it with him.

Janine was interesting, an Alpha, with an odd sense of humor. She tells him that they would not be having sex; she might still smell the residue of his most recent heat. Then again, if she really knew what had transpired, she might have hit him a little harder in the arm, after all she was the Bridesmaid to Mary and he the Best Man to John.

Sherlock is distracted by his duties and soon he’s in line, shaking hands with familiar and the unfamiliar faces. Their touches make him cringe and he wishes he were somewhere else. He tries to shield his body from them, half hiding behind John and Mary.

The small arms that encompass his waist were a small surprise. They had told him Archie was an oddity of a child. Nothing like the others, they said. He didn’t want to wear his suit or carry the rings on a pillow.  Nothing like a normal little boy.

No, Archie was peculiar and seemed to be highly fascinated with the decomposing bodies of corpses. Yes, nothing like the others and, to Sherlock, he was a wonder. Why shouldn’t Archie be different? He can’t say this aloud so he awkwardly pats the boy on his curls and carries on with the queue.

If he ever had a child-

He cuts that thought off. It’s tedious to think about something that could never be. Just because he suffered one fluke of a heat, a heat that hardly lasted twelve hours, did not mean he was capable of conceiving.

He hides behind his deductions.

It’s a good thing Janine is so interested in his observations. 

*

Calling Mycroft is not in his plan; then again seeing John marry another was not in his plans either. His brother’s voice is not calming him as he rattles off things like “new chapter” and the dreaded “end of an era.”

The era is not ending; John had said they would still see one another. He still wanted to be involved with the casework. The Alpha would make time for Sherlock in-between his marriage, work at the hospital, and Mary.

Why did they all keep telling him it was the end?

Sherlock ignores the ache in his chest.

*

How could he be going into heat? There was no reason for this. Those suppressants had ruined his reproduction system, so why was he in heat?

After everything he’s done to secure the stag night with John.  The help from Molly, the advice from Lestrade.

All of it is wasted.

Yet another shiver passes through his body as he buries himself deeper into the bed. His mind, his rational mind was on the verge of deteriorating. His focus was wavering.

How was he going to ignore this? He had nothing and no one.  Not even an emergency suppressant. His mind keeps going in circles; how was this possible? The data told him he was infertile!

_Are we?_ The thought drifted through the haze and he hears a noise downstairs, an opening of a door and the wooden step creeks. The scent is unmistakable and it’s rapidly becoming stronger. The Alpha in question will be able to smell him, the scent of an Omega in heat.

A door opens and John is inside the flat.

“Hello, Sherlock?” John's tentative voice calls. "Are you alright?"

_No,_ he thinks, but the weak part, the Omega part of him is already flushing warm. His instinct howls in his mind demanding he take action. His belly muscles clench, a new gush of slick coating his thighs at the prospect of his once mate so near. He ignores the call and curls into himself, speculating if his bedroom door is locked.

John’s voice is suddenly too close. It’s strained with an emotion Sherlock can't place, “Please, what's going on?”

Sherlock shudders, throwing his head above the covers, he shouts, “Go away, John!”

The Alpha outside the door shuffles, “Why didn’t you tell he you were going into heat?”

Because I never thought I would have the opportunity to experience this reproduction function ever again, he thinks.

John keeps talking though the separation, “I can smell you, why are you not on suppressants? Did they fail? Did someone slip you something?”

Sherlock can’t take it, “Why does it matter? Better yet, why do you care? Go home, John. I’m sorry.” He’s ruined the night, he knows it. Why couldn't the Alpha just go home and leave him be?

There’s a soft thump, as if the man had dropped his forehead against the door. Sherlock blocks out the Alpha scent by covering his head to avoid his overwhelming interest. His John, the scent he knows and once carried across his own skin. It’s all Sherlock can do not to run to the door, open it, and throw himself to his knees in submission. He grits his teeth.

John sighs, “It’s our biology. We never fully broke our bond when you…left.” Despite it all, the Alpha is right. Their hormones, once so in tune, they could be the reason why this was happening. John is staying he wants to help Sherlock because it was in his nature.

John must be feeling it too, that Alpha’s need to protect, not just as a doctor, but as a once mate. “Mary will understand, Sherlock. What happened between us was so long ago. It's strained and for that I'm the one who’s sorry. So sorry." There’s a pause, where the only sound Sherlock can hear is his own panting breath then, “Let me help you through this. One last time.”

_One last time._

Sherlock curses, resolve crumbling as he stumbles out of the white sheets and throws the door open. John’s inside the room before Sherlock can comprehend him. His eyes drink in the sight of the Alpha, casually dressed for a stag night that can’t happen. He wants to tell John everything about the suppressants that caused his infertility, about the guilt he feels, and the regret that burns in his veins. Wants to ask him if it matters, if any of it really mattered outside this bedroom.

But the words don't come. He’d always been quiet about this part. Never knew how to approach sentiment.

Now he’s flushed, can feel the sweat and slight tremors of restraint. His thin shirt and trousers are wrinkled. John’s eyes shift to the bed and back to Sherlock.

His pupils dilate as he takes in the Omega’s trembling and obvious arousal. Sherlock watches as John inhales, tasting the thick scent of pheromones.

Sherlock tries to swallow but his throat is dry. He wants to reach out to John and pull him close, but he's so afraid. The Alpha smells like another and suddenly it makes his want to weep.

This Alpha is not his anymore.

“One last time.” John’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips, “I’m going to help you through this.”

Sherlock's knees buckle and John’s there. A soldiers grip on him, holding him and moving home back, setting him on the bed. The Omega would express his gratitude if he weren’t so distracted by John’s suddenly overwhelming closeness.

John’s grip remains and Sherlock closes his eyes against the sting of tears. He breathes in John’s smell then, knowing that he'll find Mary there.

He dose but he didn’t expect to find the heady sent of arousal too. It’s strong, answering the call of Sherlock’s. He wants to reach out and touch then, but his hands grip the sheets, pulling them taunt.

He knows John can smell the slickness on his thighs, the thin material does nothing to mask it, but it’s not like he could never hide himself from this man, but for John to be this willing, it was almost like he-

Sherlock shakes his head at the thought.

There was no way John felt that way about him. He may have, a long time ago, but not now, not eight days before his wedding to another.

John shushes him then, and the sound is so soothing that Sherlock let’s out and whimper and he knows he’s gone.

There is no hesitation as the Alpha removes his clothes, slipping them off and placing them over a chair. Sherlock remains sitting, eyes half lidded as he watches his Alpha. He needs to observe, to know that John’s not going to change his mind and leave.

He promised his one last time.

John is gentle for a reason Sherlock cannot understand. Perhaps it was because this was the first time in almost two and a half years, but maybe because it would be the last. He pushes that thought away before he can really comprehend it, focusing on the now. If he thinks too much he’ll regret it.

Sherlock swallows and allows himself to be pushed back, legs falling open as the shorter male slips between them. A solid weight where the Omega needs him. A high whimper escapes from the back of his throat at the feel of a hard cock so near is entrance.

John whispers something to him and lifts the shirt from  Sherlock's waist.

The Omega does not try to hide his thin chest or the way his ribs are too close to the surface.

John runs is hands down Sherlock’s sides, stopping at the elastic of his pajama bottoms. He signs and it's a familiar sound, "Your transport could use more fuel, Sherlock. Especially when you’re off your suppressants."

"There's been a lot of work," Sherlock lies automatically. He doesn't tell why he was off suppressants. It wouldn't matter.

"I think you’re just looking for a distraction," John says and slips his thumbs beneath the trousers.

The material is removed and Sherlock watches as John breathes deep, eyes falling shut. His expression is one of lust and the Omega grins, clawing at the walls in Sherlock’s mind.

He bares his teeth, feeling John’s thumb rub the sensitive skin at his hip. “If you could cease the chatter and get on with it.”

John chuckles and kicks the material away, fingers tickling. “So bossy.”

“You like it,” the response is instantaneous and Sherlock feels his eyes widen at the familiar banter. He flushes, his chest and face hot with it. John’s hand stills.

There is a long pause and Sherlock does not expect the Alpha to respond, but then again John did love to surprise him. His hand moves lower brushing against the Omega’s straining erection.

“That I do,” John smiles and it’s a fleeting thing, gone before Sherlock can appreciate what it means.

He opening his mouth to apologize but John’s hands are on him. Moans replace words and soon his back is against the mattress, hands tangles in the sheets. John’s mouth is wet and his lips are on his chest and stomach now, and Sherlock is more than ready.

There is a familiar motions and Sherlock’s leg is around John’s waist as the Alpha guides himself into place. A tentative thrust of his hips and it’s both too much and not enough. He’s missed this and the Omega in him releases a cry of its own, elated at this intimate reunion with his Alpha.

“I need-” he cries, voice dropping low. The gasps that escaped him are almost a sob. He feels like he’ll never have enough air in his lungs.

“I got you,” John’s tone is deep, trembling with emotion, “It’s all going to be fine now. I have you, _Sherlock_.”

No, it’s not, he thinks, I need you.

I need my _mate_ back.

Sherlock clamps his mouth shut, to afraid the Omega would come out and it’s ramblings would permeate the air. The insistent chanting is almost hypnotizing inside his mind palace: _Mine. Mate. Mine. Mate._

No, Sherlock though shaking his head. Not anymore. Can’t you see? Not anymore. It’s over and this is their end.

“Okay?” John’s soft voice enters his concentration; he’s still physically connected yet unmoving.

Sherlock knew his body should strain more, it had been over two years, but then again the one above him was a familiar weight, just as the stretch inside. He takes a deep breathes and feels the pulse of the member inside him.

Why wasn’t John  _moving?_

Sherlock grunts, feeling his body shudder. He hates his biology; always despised its ability to render his mind ineffective while the physical took over. He needs this now, rolling his hips he clenches around the thick member inside him.

The Alpha gasps and the Omega thinks it’s a beautiful sound. In this moment he owns the Alpha.

Sherlock circles his hips again and slips his other leg up to cradle at John’s back. He bucks. John’s eyes close at the sensation, his teeth on his lower lip threatening to break skin.

Fine. If the Alpha was stalling the Omega would take what it wants. He grips the Alpha and bucks again, feeling the thickness and heat inside; he knows he’s coating the other in his slick. There is a promise of a knot at the base and he grinds against that solid mass, making himself gasp.

It’s a wonderful pressure and it Sherlock let’s himself remember. He knows this Alpha, wore his scent with pride for nearly a year. Everything about John was familiar to him and it’s a comfort knowing that this part of the Alpha had not changed since he was last with Sherlock. His body was flushed and the heat makes his tremble but he ignores it, watching in fascination as the Alpha clenches his jaw against the sensation of Sherlock ridding him from below.

The Omega’s gray eyes slip to the muscles of the Alpha’s arms to watch them flex. John was holding back from fully embracing Sherlock.  The thought comes to him through the pleasure; John could not feel it then, the ever-thickening bond that had nothing to do with bites and claims.

It was overwhelming the pleasure and the sadness that churned inside his gut. Too soon Sherlock hisses, throwing his head back as his erection brushes John’s stomach. The display seems to have jolted the Alpha out of his daze.

Bending his neck John leans down, mouth hovering close to his throat before placing a kiss right over the faded bonding mark, an apology.

Sherlock sills and the Omega cries out in a desperate howl.

John shushes him and grasped for his hips. He draws himself out and then in, setting a slow pace to completion. Sherlock feels it all over his body, the tingle of the acknowledged mark and the warm deep rocking of their hips.

Sherlock knows the Alpha will not bite him, can’t. John is Mary’s mate. Mary is the one he bites now.

But the Omega...

He continues to bare his throat, closing his eyes to avoid the deep blue that are boring into him. He’s so full of John’s cock and all he can think about is how it’s not enough.

John voice is distant, “Going to make you feel good.”

He slips a hand down to give him a single stroke, up and then down his dripping member. The Alpha’s cock slides between them, it’s now a pounding rhythm. Sherlock tried not to moan, to pant, to cry, but the Omega is crawling out of him, surfacing as desperation draws near. He can smell it, the rich musk of their mixed scents. It’s so familiar and soon the room is filled with his deep voice, begging his Alpha, his John, for release. “Please, please, please. You promised….”

John soothes him with his touch lips kissing his shoulder and pectoral muscles, hips driving faster into the open body below him. The Omega whimpers as the Alpha responds, slowing his thrusts he flicks his hand over the glistening cock between them. The effect is instantaneous as Sherlock cries out, eyes snapping open only to clash with blue.

“There you are,” John whispers, pupils dilating, nearly black.

Sherlock suddenly needs to be closer and so he reaches up to encircle the other’s shoulders, trying to find a balance within this moment. The angle changes and the Omega hisses, feeling the telltale pull of his release. The Alpha is gasping now and it’s too much, too soon. John’s ducks, mouth against his neck, the opposite side of where he could mark him. Sherlock breaks out in goose bumps; scrunching up his face he tries to remember to feel control or at least restraint. His fingers tighten on the other’s shoulders, drawing him closer and the Alpha’s hips rotate involuntarily, grinding down.

Sherlock’s cock stiffens, the head brushed against the Alpha’s stomach, jerking in time with John’s thrusts.

That’s when he feels it, the swell at the base of John’s cock. Sherlock shudders his hips in time with the Alpha’s, trying to get him to go faster, to go deeper, because the Omega needs this, he _needs_ to feel the the Alpha’s seed, he needs it inside him _now_.  

The Omega tenses, back going taut and he’s at the edge of release, mindless pleasure consumes him. Distantly, Sherlock can sense his mewing like a proper Omega, all the deep gasping and whines vibrating from his throat, only to be buried in John’s neck. His stomach and John’s hand are covered in his warm cum.

Sherlock hears the answering sounds of John’s cry as he begins coming, hips grinding in short rolls, which send tremors of pleasure through the Omega’s body. He pressing up and in until his knot is fully swollen, locking them together. Warmth floods the Omega’s entrance causing him to whine, low and deep in his chest. John nose is at Sherlock’s damp temple, breathing in their combined scents, gasping every time the Omega’s aftershocks clench around his knot.

Sherlock’s quiet now, breathing deep, tasting their scent and feeling the wet heat of the room settle at the back of his throat. It’s the familiarity of it that allows his mind to calm.

John’s a warm blanket over his; cock still buried and knot tying them for the moment, his hands have moved to Sherlock’s sides, soothing him.

He comes back to himself now that the mindless Omega has been satisfied, for this round at least. That’s when it hits him, dousing him in cold water: John’s never kissed him once.

*

Murder.

Yes, they were going to play _murder._

The perfect distraction. Now none of the wedding guests will perceive that this day is devastating him; breaking his heart, tearing apart his sanity. The Omega instinct is whimpers, but outside Sherlock is deducing, narrowing it down.

He ignores it, the Omega was withering, clawing at the logic, distressed that it’s mate was leaving and Sherlock could not agree more. The fact that there’s going to be no one to put him back together again, no one but himself looms painfully near.

*

Sherlock throws his head back and moans as the Alpha’s fingers dance up his thighs. He’s above him this time, catering to both his own pleasure and the Omega’s. The urge to sink down on the Alpha’s cock again and again until they’re tied together is exquisite, but he resists the instinct. He slips slowly over the other, until John is buried deep inside his wet heat, bottoming out, only to do it again and again.

A deep whine escapes his throat and John rips his gazes away from where he’s been watching them connect, “A little longer?”

“Yes,” The Omega shudders, wanting to please his Alpha, he nods, hands grasping the other man’s shoulders tighter as his trembling thighs rise up and then down. This is nearly the twelfth hour and they are both sweat slick and reeking of pheromones.

He wants this, wants to be in control, even as his body demands he submit. He sets the pace, bringing his Alpha inside him over and over. He ignores his own dripping member, too focused on the pleasure inside, the warm tugging and exquisite stretch of his Alpha’s cock. 

John’s hand caresses his chest, playing with the thin hairs before lowering to grasp around Sherlock’s cock, the other grasping his thigh. “Christ, look at you. You’re perfect.”

The Alpha’s gaze is watching him, boring into his with lust. The intensity of the look makes the Omega shiver, and he wonders if that look alone could drive him over the edge. Suddenly a familiar emotion settles over John’s face. Sherlock, lost in the moment, leans in on instinct to claim a kiss, only to have John duck away, avoiding his lips yet again.

“No,” he whines.

Shock runs through him, followed quickly by pain. It blooms in his chest at John’s refusal to kiss him, but before the hurt could fully register itself John’s hips drive upward, pounding himself deeper into the Omega, giving into his Alpha need to dominate.

The Alpha shushes him, “It’s alright, it’s alright”

No, he’s trying to distract me, Sherlock thinks, and it’s working as a cry rips from his throat. “Knot. I need you’re knot, please.”

John shudders against him, cursing and doubling his pace, helping to lift Sherlock up and down his cock.

Sherlock leans down, sealing his mouth over John’s neck, not biting, simply panting in the other’s scent, reassuring his instincts that this was real, that John was his in this moment, even if he refuses to seal their mouths together or reaffirm their decaying bond.

_John is here…John is here…Alpha is here._

“God, I lo-,” John groans, words muffed over Sherlock’s left pectoral and licking his way to the Omega’s neck.

“Yes,” Sherlock makes a choking sound, arching his back to rise into it, only to be met halfway when the Alpha thrust’s up. He clenches around the clock inside him before sliding slowly up and then down, down, down, taking the Alpha’s rapidly expanding knot into his body in one pull. With the feel of John’s hot release inside him, Sherlock comes, clenching around the length and knot.

The Omega makes an agreeable sound as they both gasp for breath. Sherlock collapses, trembling thighs pushed to their limit, John’s arms catch him around his middle only to hug him close to his chest, trying to make his comfortable.

Sherlock realizes his eyes are running, the pleasure having been too much and he quickly sniffs, avoiding the other’s questionable gaze and he moves away from John’s neck, that’s when he feels it, the knot is still there, locking them in place.  Biology at its most basic.

“Okay?” John asks, running a hand through Sherlock’s damp curls, resting his palm to the back of his neck. He continues to pet him and the purr that escapes the Omega would be embarrassing it if he weren’t still reeling from his orgasm.

He hums, feeling the high slowly turn into a plateau. He avoids the Alpha’s intense gaze to focus on slowing his heartbeat. Suddenly he’s aware of John’s hand in his hair and the closeness of their bodies. An internal light is slowly coming on as he takes in the hour of the day.

Something is wrong; he should be floating high on the endless wave of hormones and pleasure of his heat. With this last climax he feels drained, the urge to fuck having evaporated in the span of minutes. It’s not even been a full twelve hours and his body is calming, finishing its cycle. This wasn’t right, heats last for seventy-four hours at a minimum, how could his be ending so soon?

John’s hand stills and he pulls away. “What’s wrong?”

His mind begins to clear and he remembers: The suppressants, his body was never going to be the same. He was lucky to have had this at all, he realizes. Some barren heat brought on by the closeness of his ex-bond mate.

His voice is rough from hours of use, “I think my heats ended.”

*

In the kitchen they are both showered and dressed, a fair amount of distance separates them. Sherlock is thankful for this; if the Alpha was any closer he could see himself doing something stupid and entirely Omega. It’s bad enough that he can smell their combined scents on his own skin, though the soap and fresh clothes.

His mind was back online and even though there was so much to say he couldn’t think of how to phrase it, put it into the _correct_ words. The words to make the other stay. His eyes may see all but his mind were rebelling at the very thought of putting his emotions into physical words.

After all caring was never an advantage.

John was quiet and then, “Don’t worry. Mary and I discussed this. Our old bond will be broken soon, once Mary has her rut, you won’t have to suffer this connection.”

The words were like a physical blow, but Sherlock didn’t move. He ignores the pain in his chest and finally looks at John.

His voice is small, too tired from the heat and too strained from the noises that had been ripped from his throat, “Will you kiss me, please? One last time."

John was hesitant but then he meets Sherlock’s eye. Without a word he walks the three steps to him and leans up at the same time as the other leans down. It was a soft touch of lips, dry but with perfect pressure. Reaching up, John clasps his head, hand resting on the black curls. It was everything, a reunion, an apology, and a goodbye wrapped in one moments.

As John pulls away Sherlock wonders if the Alpha can feel how much he needs him in that kiss. In that moment he wants to tell him everything, about his two years, his frustrations, anxiety, and pain that their separation caused him. How he regrets it all because the price was too high. Sherlock had nothing, a broken bond, a rebellious body, and no mate. He has never been a proper Omega, he knows this, but he has been a good mate; loyal even in absence.

John slips his hand away and it took everything in him not to let a whine escape his throat. The Alpha clears his throat and steps back, bringing distance between them, breaking the moment.

His voice is steady, focused. “I’ll see you at the wedding, Sherlock.”

_Oh._

He waits until John closes the door to 221B before he allows himself to break down.

*

Mary’s voice is curious when she asks, “You don’t see the signs, do you?”

They are on the side of the dance floor watching the couples sway, they both had glasses of wine but her eyes bore into him, reading _him_ now.

He tilts his head, of course he saw the signs, knew them in his last heat, had felt them even before the hormones ensnarled his body. He loves John. Did she hate him for that? No, she had allowed John to spend a heat with him, even hug him at her reception, perhaps she knew it was simply one sided, an old bond mate struggling to move on.

“Sherlock, I know you care for him as much as I.”

He doesn’t know what to say so an quiet apology escapes him. He brings the wine to his lips, grimacing at the taste of it on his palate. He looks at it in contempt.

She touches his arm, “I understand now and everything is going to be fine. Thank you for your promise to be there for us. John appreciates it more than you know.”

“Well, you’re hardly gonna need me around now what with the adventure of marriage ahead.” Yes, it was better to bring distance now, before the inevitable end truly sets in. He could play into the idea of their friendship now, until their lives narrowed down the two of them. “You should dance, both of you,” He indicates John, whose face has an array of lights playing over it. He’s laughing at something Lestrade is saying, completely at ease.

She reaches up, bringing him down to bestow a chase kiss on his check; she smells of John and happiness.

“Thank you for the music,” She whispers before she departs, heading towards her husband who greets her with open arms and a soft kiss.

He and John lock eyes over Mary’s shoulder and Sherlock forces a smile, nodding his head in acknowledgment. John beams and turns back to Mary starting a slow waltz.

Sherlock turns his back to the dance floor.

*

He makes his exit now, folding up the flaps of his coat against the cool night.  The call of something stronger pulls him away. He needs something to ease his mind and the rambling of the emotions that have been twisting through him; needs something to silence the Omega instinct that is shrieking at him.

No, he thought, tonight was not a danger night. How could it be dangerous when the call to the needle was a welcomed old friend?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: No stag night in this chapter; however, there is something else to fill that gap. If you guessed sex* and angst you get internet cookies. Have fun.
> 
> *Awkwardly written by your nervous author above.


	3. Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s only been a month since he last saw him, avoided John altogether. That was his vow to himself; avoid the one man he promised never to leave again, the one man he promised to be there for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Read the tags! If you spot the reference you get ‘rock candy,’ yo.

It’s only been a month since he last saw John, avoided his altogether. He’d made a promise to John and Mary but this was his vow to himself; avoid the one man he promised never to leave again, the one man he promised to be there for. Always.

He had a new case, though, something to distract him. Going undercover was freeing. He was off the grid. The place was a broken down hellhole filled with people that mirrored the outsides decomposing structure. The smell was horrid, making his nausea rise once again. It seems like the month he’s been in and out of this dwelling leaves his insides rolling. He’s vomited nearly a dozen times these past weeks. The narcotics did take the edge off, though.

He flicks the lighter shut, reaching for his supply of clean needles, he’s not stupid, and he knows how to avoid diseases. He measures out the bluish liquid, a mix of meth and heroin. He’s needed something stronger this time around and he’d been informed that blue sky was top of the line. It promised the perfect high. The strap around his arm is tight, drawing the vein to the surface. The tip slides in painlessly; he avoids any damage, not seeing the appeal of track marks. He watches the warm drug enter his body and feels his mind calm, the thoughts slowing to a dull roar as he slips the needle out.

There is a warm rush and he curls on his side, back to the entrance, all thoughts of danger slipping away as an unnatural silence consumes his mind.

*

He’s jolted awake from his light doze by aggressive shuffling down below. He listens as someone ascend the stairs, he knows that walk, heard it a thousand times before on the seventeen steps of 221B. Had the Alpha found out where he’s been this last month? No, John appears to be looking for someone else, an addict by the name of Isaac.

The youth asks, “Have you come for me?”

Apparently, John has come for the boy completely unaware of him. Well, he’s never been one to deny attention. He rolls over and see’s the bowed blond head, “Hello, John.” He pauses, watching as the other man’s eyes widen in shock and recognition; no he had no idea that Sherlock was there, “Did you come for me as well?”

He watches as the Alpha's eyes narrow.

There it was, he jeered inward, the anger.

*

There were too many people in the labs, but he manages to tune them out. He was waiting for the text message, the one to tell him that Magnussen had the information of his not so fabricated escapades. It was only a matter of time, especially with that last scene that he and John had just delivered.

Molly was livid; he could see it in the way her jaw tightened as the test result came to light. Of course they were positive, why did she look so shocked?

John asks the question and _he_ gets slapped, at least he’s grateful for a lack of an engagement ring.

Her voice is loud, echoing in the room, “How dareyou throw away the beautiful _gifts_ you were born with?” She looks to John then back to Sherlock, “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to yourself?”

Her scent is saturating the room and it’s a cross between utter disgust and anger and then he’s slapped again! Ending this he throws words that are meant to addle, to avoid. Billy Wiggins turns out to be a surprising source of help.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. Why is Molly reacting so strongly? There is nothing wrong with a little recreational drug use, he has nothing to lose. Nothing at all. His body is already damaged.

A shiver shot down his spine as her eyes lock on his for a final time; did she know something that he didn’t? Before the thought could fully form, he hears the alert on his phone. He smiles at the text. He has the information he needs as he makes his way out the door.

The game is _finally_ on.

*

He thought he could escape the mindless chatter but as he throws himself onto his chair at 221B he’s realized the mistake he’s made. Did they not see that he wanted to be alone? He flips his hood up, avoiding their gaze as he curls up, wishing he could have a moment’s peace now that his high is slipping away.

Mycroft is ever so abrasive against his nerves. They banter and no, he does not have a drug problem, thank you very much!

John mentions his chair and Sherlock looks away. It was dusty and needed to be moved out, or in this case stored in John’s old bedroom upstairs and away from his sight. The fact that every time his gaze landed on it he felt a pain throb in his chest was mute.

The Kitchen was another matter anyways. He’s been unusually hungry these last few weeks and it was beyond frustrating. The transport was becoming so needy. He half listens as his brother warns him not to intervene and it just solidifies that he has too, not just for Lady Smallwood, but for the fact that Magnussen can get his hands on anyone. He sees Mycroft off with a twist of the wrist and then it’s just he and his ex-bond mate in the room.

Sherlock can’t help but think John’s stalling; he’s lingering here, ignoring a physician's concern of drugs, especially drugs on an Omega’s biology. It seemed like the quiet, peaceful, domestic suburban life was really not settling well for the army doctor, was it?

Yes, Sherlock sees it now, the inner need for something _more._ Well, he’ll just have to recruit him then.

*

Janine is a wonderful Alpha and she’s done more than he could hope for, she’s made John _jealous_. That deep Omega part of him preens, but the logical portion of his mind scoffs; can’t the Alpha see it’s all a ruse? Her smell wasn’t even rubbing off on him! He couldn’t wait to see John’s face when he “proposes.”

*

“..the letters no longer have any practical use to you, so with that in mind.”

Charles Magnussen gives a snort, looking pleased.

“Something I said?” Sherlock asks, feeling his hackles rise.

“I was just reading.” The dead eyes bore into him behind glass. He adjusts the delicate looking spectacles with an expression of thoughtfulness. “There’s rather a lot.”

Sherlock frown and feels a premonition that pushes against his shoulders. He blinks, holding in a smile. It was the spectacles then, they supplied the knowledge he needed.  He clears his throat ready to make his case for Lady Smallwood when Magnussen grins.

“Is John really your ex-bond mate?”

His stomach drops and it takes every ounce of will he had not to turn to look at John. In his peripheral, he sees the Alpha ramrod straight, lips parted in shock. Very few people were permitted to know that information.

Without take his eyes off the blackmailer in front of him, Sherlock watches as a curious look makes that flat face twitch. “Readbeard?”

Sherlock sways and feels like the floor has opened up beneath him. This man, how could he know?

“Sorry,” Magnussen shakes his head, expression smug. “You were probably talking.”

The man before him was not a man at all, no he was a shark and blood had just been introduced into the water. Sherlock’s throat is dry and he tries to swallow, to form words, but his calm facade momentarily falls. He needs to get it together. He blinks rapidly, and straightens his shoulders. He needs to stop this man and he was so close, so very close.

He can feel it at his fingertips. 

*

The scent of Claire-de-la-lune was a dead giveaway. He advances on them, Magnussen and Lady Smallwood only to come up short.

Mary Watson was holding the gun.

He should have never ignored the data when it was first presented to him at the restaurant. He’d misread her. That was a grievous mistake. He talks, words spilling out as alarm bells ring in his ears. He has to get her out, has to help her, for John. “Mary, whatever he’s got on you, let me help.”

She brings her revolver up then slams the blunt end into Magnussen, rendering him unconscious. Then the gun is back on Sherlock.

The Alpha’s face looks at him with pity, mournful. Why can’t she see? He can help her, would do anything to make sure she and John were safe.

Suddenly her face shift’s, her eyes are something he’s never seen before. No, he’s seen that look, had locked it away long ago; her instinct was taking over. Her words register before the bullet, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Truly, I am. Especially about the child.”

Child?

But then he’s falling.

*

In his mind place he tries to find a calming moment, something to help the shock, the pain of all this. He runs to the room he knows holds John. The one room were all his favorite memories of the Alpha are stored: his laugh, his moan, his expressions of amazement, their third kiss, the ridiculous way he types, and so much more. John was his anchor, the one who kept him grounded no matter the situation.

Yes, it was always going to be John.

Flinging the door open he comes face to face with Mary, dressed in her wedding dress, and holding a gun.

*

He’s deteriorating, spiraling downward. He had to get away, before demise consumes him.

This room was green and he can’t remember what he stored here. Turning he comes face to face with himself.

The doppelganger watches him. They have the same face, same clothes, and the same body. They are identical.

Then he sees it, what made them different, it was the eyes. Instinct. It was the Omega and its eyes were blazing, filled with a wildness that he had never seen before. Its hand shot out, pressing over the wound.

Pain, unlike before, causes him to buckle.

On his knees, he watches the Omega draw its palm away, it’s soaked with blood.

“You did this to us. You took away our chance.”

“Chance at what?” he grits out.

The Omega smile’s, but it’s a sad thing. Its eyes flash with anger, “I’m your instincts. I saw the signs. I know them better than any facts. I’m your premonition.  You should have trusted me.”

Then he’s hauled up and pushed out the door.

*

He makes his way down, down to the bottom of his mind palace.

Jim Moriarty was locked away tight, a padded cell was befitting for the lunatic of a man. “Yes, they will all cry, won’t they,” he taunts, “Now you’ll never hear the _baby_ cry…”

What were they talking about?

“John Watson is definitely in danger…” Moriarty sings.

His eyes open and everything is clear. _Oh, he can’t let that happen._

*

He’s not fully conscious but there is a voice calling his name; the morphine makes him sluggish but then a face comes into view. He doesn’t know that face, at first, but the eyes, the eyes were raging. The tone she uses is Alpha and it’s a demand she wraps in a whisper, “You don’t tell John.”

He tries to breathe deeper but the oxygen seems to be slipping away from him. Mary becomes a blur as she backs away from him, “Look at me and tell me you’re not gonna tell him.”

He nods, because he can’t do anything else.

She’ll be the one to tell John in time.

*

Are all doctors’ voices this apathetic or was it because every time they spoke to him he had lost something?

“-you were in the early stages of pregnancy.”

_Were._

He’s reclined on the hospital bed, so he’s not worried when his strength leaves him. The morphine is doing nothing to alleviate the pain that blooms in his chest, so much like a second bullet. His head drops back as his eyes close, blocking out the sight of the surgeon.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, with the list of narcotics that were in your system at the time and the trauma you suffered your miscarriage was unavoidable. You died, eight seconds in total, in surgery. It’s still a miracle you’re alive now. No brain damage, no-”

Dark spots appear behind his eyes.

Pregnancy.

His instinct had known and Sherlock had refused to believe it was possible. How could he have been so blind?

It’s not until after the doctor closes his door that he knows he’s crying. Tears slip through his clenching eyelids. He was a fool. The Omega was howling from its place curled up tight, but he couldn’t think that it was only crying for himself. No, it wept for John and the offspring that its Alpha would never know. It wept for him; blinded as he was by data.

That’s when it hits him; his superior rational mind had a blind spot. He didn’t accept his instinct, his first premonition. If only he’d listened to his own emotions.

He allows himself to grieve and he hates it, hates his weakness for caring about something that he never even wanted to begin with. He allowed this moment to mourn for it can’t last. No, in the back of his mind, dulled by morphine and pain, he knows there is still so much to be done.

The game was not over.

*

Billy Wiggins is a remarkable Beta, he moves John’s chair without complaint and even buys the perfume. He is also handy when it comes to escaping through windows. When one does not want to be seen the loyalty of an addict, a highly observant one at that, can do wonders.

He needs to protect John now and this was the only way to do it. He just hops that the Alpha did not hate him after he shows him.

First, he had a little meeting with Charles Augustus Magnussen.

*

No one spares him a second glance as he eats his meal in a hospital gown. Magnussen did look a tad too interested when he saw that Sherlock was still connected to the morphine drip, though. Good, he was still giving the impression of an addict.

Magnussen truly was a repulsive man. There were no words to adequately describe how unappealing he was. Sherlock didn’t even bother scenting too deeply, had no desire to find out his second gender. Thank God, for morphine that dulled his scent glands.

However, he was still highly interested in the information the man possessed, especially now. A blackmailer was the lowest form of criminal and they always seemed to hold the highest forms of costs. Yes, eradicating this man would be a wonderful case to solve; he could feel the rush under his skin at the prospects.

He had an idea of where this man kept his vaults. His eyes gave too much away.

He reaches for the very vaults now, the glasses, this inventive and highly cleaver tool, portable knowledge, portable Appledore all at Magnussen’s disposal. He couldn’t wait to see.

Raising the spectacles, he slips them over his eyes and sees nothing but a blank face and the dead stare.

He sat the glasses down and watches as man before him leans back, a smirk settling across his face. “You underestimate me, Mr. Holmes.”

_Oh._

Sherlock was wrong. He looks again and this time he lets his instinct take over. He read the other face and body, noting the way he holds himself.  

_Oh, now I see._

It was all in Magnussen’s head then. Everything. All the data he’s collected and every single fact and lie was imbedded, twisted together within his brain.

Magnussen owned that knowledge, like he owned the papers, and then published it at his own gain.

Newspapers.

Stories.

_Fairytales._

So many lies. Just like the lie of Mary Morstan. Such material, such blackmail is meant to drive people to desperation. Sherlock cringes inwardly as he realizes the full extent of the “vaults” that lurk behind that dead-eyed stare.

Well, Sherlock thinks, I’ll just have to kill you then. Time to throw himself to the sharks as it were, perhaps Mycroft could be of some use or a least, with the secrets that he hordes.

*

_Leinster Gardens_

A lie that is hidden in plain sight. Is it so much like his infertility? He was told one thing and then his body, ever rebellious, ever so unordinary, deceits him.

Mary Morstan was just that, a façade, a lie hidden in plain sight, living under his very observation. He hadn’t the time to figure her real name out, not even bothering to contact Mycroft for the information. No, he needs to keep this close to the chest. He’s already forming a plan on account of his earlier encounter and it was a gamble, this method of getting her to reveal the information was risky but he has his straight flush in hand.

Mary is quite, still looking through the darkened hall at where she believes he is to be sitting, “You were very slow.”

He draws in a breath, “Which part?”

“All of it. I saw you and waited for you to call me out, but you were blind; blinded by pleasing John, your ex-bond mate. Do you always ignore your first instinct?”

“I was blind,” He sighs into the phone, no reason to lie when the truth was so very real. Besides, there were enough lies in this room as it were. “I prefer facts, but I have to admit, you did a wonderful job of making me second guess that first impression and all the others that followed. I was blind to the warnings.”

Her eyes narrow, “Then you missed the signs that you were pregnant. You shared your heat with my mate and yet you still allowed me to keep him.”

It’s a low blow. He ignores it and asks her to demonstrate her shot. She does not disappoint. Surgery. Clearly.

She was the key then, the data he needs to end Magnussen’s blackmail, to put a stop to that all-knowing dead eyed stare. She would be the catalyst, something to fall back on.

From behind her Sherlock comes out of the shadows and offers her the olive branch, “I’ll take the case.” She calls his trick out and disagrees, but he’s had enough, his wound is throbbing and he’s getting lightheaded, “Why didn’t you come to me in the first place? I could have helped you; I would never deny anyone their chosen mate.”

Mary’s voice is hard, “John can’t ever know that I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him forever. Sherlock, I will never let that happen.”

“This didn’t have to happen.” He’s angry now. “You killed me. Eight seconds. I suffered a miscarriage.”

Her stare is hard, never wavering, “There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop him from loving me.”

“I believe they call that selfishness, Mary.”

She shakes her head, “No, it’s protecting the one I love. You would know, wouldn’t you? You and I are very much alike.”

He knows. So much alike and yet, different and that is why she was the one that would have John in the end. She relied on her instinct. Mary would have him and he needed to set this right, bring her fabrication to an end. “From a lie? From this façade you’ve built? Can’t you see that it’s crumbling, Mary.”

He reaches beside him for the light switch, flooding the hallway with a weak fluorescent glow, “Not that obvious of a trick.”

Mary’s face falls and she slowly turns to see the vacant eyes of her husband.

His rage is saturating the air.

She’s missed that little detail.

Apparently, her instinct has a blind spot as well.

*

John is angry, Sherlock can tell by the why he holds himself and the way he’s avoiding both their gaze. He doesn’t try to console him, can’t even begin to imagine what the Alpha feels. He needs this case; it’s the key to breaking Magnussen. He has to make this work for them.

He dismisses Mrs. Hudson, she does not need to witness the breakdown of a relationship or two tonight.

John asked the question, rage bubbling to the surface, angry at Mary and angry at Sherlock, “What have I ever done? Hmm? My whole life to deserve you?” He gestures around the flat and settles his gaze on Mary.

Her face is blank from shock.

Sherlock stares at his back. Can’t John see that everything he’s ever done had brought him to this moment? The Alpha possessed a pattern and Sherlock tells him, watching the play of emotions over John’s face.  His eyes become damp with his explanation, the pain throbs from his wound, at least he tells himself that, “It’s who you are. You chose her. It’s your instinct it’s why-” he takes a breath and forces the words out, “It’s why you chose me once.”

Johns face becomes unreadable as he turns to Mary, “So it’s my fault then? Everything comes down to me?”

Mary looks at the floor.

The scent of fear and anger are dominating the sitting room, but Sherlock ignores it. His breath is coming shorter now as he leans against the closed door, praying for the ambulance that he’s already sent for.

He needs to salvage this, something, anything, “John, listen. What is she?”

John does not take his eyes off her, they’ve become hard, the Alpha predator on display, “My lying wife?”

He sighs, “No what _is_ she?”

“The woman who shot you, killed your chance at a child, and who’s lied to me since the day I met her?”

He stands, making his way slowly around John, to sit in his chair, hands coming to clasp at his lap. The Omega was clawing, it wants out; it needed to make its voice heard _. Chance at a child?_ Sherlock shoves the natural instils down, focusing on the now. There was no reason to think that John would ever want to have anything to do with him after this woman, after this case she was offering.  Mary had a reason, a very good one, he knew.

His voice is quite, “Not in this flat; not in this room.” His gaze settles on the empty chair, the one John was leaning on as he stared Mary down.

“Your way.” He says, setting the chair in the center of the room.

Sherlock closes his eyes and feels a shudder of unease. No, this is John’s way. This was his pattern. He chose Mary; he chose a life based on everything he’s envisioned. John wants one thing but his instinct, the Alpha, knows better. Nature chose for him what he _needs_ not what he’d wants.

And John didn’t have a clue.

But then who was Sherlock to argue with him, he’s been ignoring his inner instinct for years.

Now they both must suffer from it.

*

_Christmas Day_

Mycroft is complaining about the length of the day once again. Sherlock could understand his older brothers whining but he’s too distracted by silently watching Billy from behind the newspaper he holds. He wants to make sure the man was correctly handling the sleeping sedative. He didn’t need the former addict to accidently overdose his mother or father.

He looks to his watch, silently counting down.

Perhaps Mycroft would care for a smoke. He was nervous for this day; the events that had just started to unravel.

“I know what will make you happy, brother dear.” He says reaching for his half-empty pack.

*

Outside is chill and Sherlock has the urge to point out how well his brother matches the exterior of the house. He ignores the childish thought, taking a drag from his cigarette.  Mycroft truly believes he’s given up on perusing Magnussen, or does he? Not enough data, but he seems to have ingested the sedatives without hesitation.  Maybe he had hope in the plan as well.

Mycroft calls him a dragon slayer and his brother is so very right that it takes every force of will not to react. Outwardly, he’s a blank mask but inward he knows it to be true. He’s a fool, a stupid fool who’s already planned this day.

The word ‘premeditated’ is an understatement.

Sherlock knows every angle and plans to use it to eradicate a man. No, not a simply man, he thinks, a businessman. One who preys on the weak, on their secrets, and turns their lives to ruin.

The word brought bile to his throat: blackmailer.

It’s a good thing Magnussen was so willing to participate in his game.

Mycroft sighs, “Here be dragons.”

You have no idea, Sherlock thinks, but he holds his tongue. Instead, he asks, “What would our other brother think of you keeping me away from his work?”

Mycroft avoids the question to say something overly sentimental and outrageous, “I don’t care. It’s your loss that would break my heart.”

Sherlock coughs, shock fills him as a flush covers his face, he avoids the other’s gaze telling him to go drink more of the drugged punch. 

Mycroft leaves and he takes another drag. Curiosity bubbled within him, an instinct prickling at the back of his mind. His brother, ever the eldest and Alpha at that, was always too observant and too prone to interfering, hence the need to keep him, the middle child, out of MI6 missions.

Deep inside him he felt it and for the first time a long time he listens.

He feels doubt.

*

He’s winding the scarf around his neck as John comes into the room, confusion clear on his face, “Did you drug Mary?” he sees Mycroft slumped against the table, “and your family? On Christmas?”

“Never a better time,” Sherlock says before indicating a smiling Billy, “Wiggins is an excellent chemist-“

John cuts him off, “He’s a drug addict.”

“Former.” Billy supplies, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Recovering.” Answers Sherlock.

Frustration ripples over the Alpha’s face, “Sherlock what the hell is going on, it’s been four months and you’ve had me playing house, living a lie with Mary. Then you bring us here and we’re supposed to be cheery-“

“All in good time, John,” he says making his way towards the door, but not before picking up his brothers silver laptop. They would be needing a bit of leverage, after all. Lies always had little details like this.

John shows his teeth, “That’s not good enough”

Sherlock stalls, hand on the doorknob, he turns to the Alpha and see’s that they are alone. How could he tell him that he was going to do everything in his power to prevent Magnussen from using them, any of them as leverage?

“Fair enough. I’ve made a deal with the devil, for all of us.” He proceeds to tell him about the meeting, leaving out one or two very important details.

John’s shoulders slump, “So you’re going to give Magnussen your brother’s information in exchange for access to his vault?”

“Yes,” His hand settles over the door handle.

“Then why was I with Mary?” he asks, patients running thin.

Sherlock sighs, hating where this could lead him. He does not want to think of what would happen beyond this day, he couldn’t think of how to tell John that he was walking to his own exile, “I was hoping you would reconcile, see each other in a different light. There is a reason you chose her.”

“That’s bullshit.” He said, stepping closer, “You’re onto something, but you’re wrong. I’ve already asked for a divorce. Weeks ago. It’s over and I player your game.” With a rough movement John pulls on his jacket. “After today I’m moving out.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and he can feel his pulse race. He had feared this even as he had wanted that exact outcome. John would be free. His instinct stirred, clearly interested in the prospects. The Alpha had already expressed a want in returning to Baker Street, to his old lodgings. He did not like the fact that Sherlock had asked him to stay with Mary, but it was what needed to happen in order to give a false front. A way to keep Magnussen in the game.

The Omega is ever so selfish, but that was only a piece of his biology, the rest, the rational, logical portion is filled with dread. John didn’t see that Sherlock was trying to distance himself. He’s been doing it for months, planning this day; he knew he would not be going back to Baker Street. “John, it was for the better. Magnussen needed to know that you were getting along, that she was still in hiding. He knows her secret; he knows all of our secrets.”

His face was doubtful, “How can you possibly know that?”

Sherlock opens his eyes to see blue, “Trust me.”

“Can I?”

He grins, sadness making it seem deeper than what it was, “Do you doubt my methods?”

*

Seeing footage of himself save John was not what he’d envisioned on arriving at Appledore and it catches him off guard.

His error.

His _very_ human error is on display for them. He sees himself save John, pulling him out of the fire without a thought to his own safety. Sherlock, not Mary, is the one to save him. He watches it dawn on John’s face, the man really had no clue, did he? All this time the Alpha did not comprehend that he was Sherlock’s weakness, his pressure point.

Was it not obvious to John in the way he’s grabbed the Alpha at the pool, the desperate kiss they’d shared, the months they’d spent learning each other’s bodies, how he’d hid himself away for two years to ensure that his mate would not be a target? 

_Oh._

That’s when it hits him, barrels into his chest like a freight train: he’s never said it aloud, never told John that he loved him, and now he would never get the chance to. He feels tears at his eyes, sorrow weighing his chest down. He was a fool.

Regret fills his chest. Love should to be spoken aloud and he never even attempted to form the words. How could he have been so stupid?

The Danish voice penetrates his thoughts and all Sherlock can see is the man’s smug face, “Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr. Holmes. But look how you care about John Watson.” His voice dropped to a mocking whisper, “How very Omega of you and even after he’s moved on to another. You should seriously consider rolling over and accepting the end, Sherlock.”

He ignores the man’s prodding and listens to John stutter something about leverage only to have Magnussen say something that was far too close to his heart, “I’d never let you burn, Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock feels bile at the back of his throat; everything about the way he phrased that brought back the smell of chlorine and the lapping of water as he had looked to the deep end and saw a madman, a _fan._

Magnussen continues gleefully with his knowledge, “You see, Mycroft’s pressure point is his little junkie detective brother, Sherlock. And Sherlock’s pressure point is his ex-bond mate, John Watson. John Watson’s pressure point is his lying wife. I, own John Watson’s wife; therefore, I own Mycroft.”

Sherlock stills, letting out a sign. No, it’s Magnussen who makes the enormous mistake of believing that Mary is still John’s pressure point.

*

So everything was in his head then? When the dead eyes and smiling face confirms it Sherlock reaches for the gun, tucked away in John’s jacket. His pulse is pounding, filling him with adrenaline.

There it was, the proof he needs.

Pulling the trigger on Magnussen is almost too easy.

Keeping his back to John, not allowing himself to see the man’s face, not giving himself a last fleeting glance before his punishment, was torture.

He didn’t need to sees the Alpha’s shocks of confusion; he could taste it in the air. As the wind of the helicopter and the chaos of the black clad secret serves men swarm he falls to his knees, head bowed in utter submission.

He’s won.

He’s slayed the dragon and now he would never see John again.

Mycroft is always one to fancy himself the most cavaliering of the Holmes brood and he’s here to see him off, taken in handcuffs because he has finally done it and all the world will know.

He’s given them a dead body.

The great Sherlock Holmes is a murderer.

*

He allows them to lead him away and he answers their boring and redundant queries in a flat tone. He’s refused their bribes of meals and ignores their placidity at his cooperation. He is not allowed to contact anyone and all his personal effects have been confiscated. Sherlock’s lucky they allow him his white shirt and trousers with a pair of their standard issue shoes.

They leave him in the interrogation room with his thoughts and there is much to ponder. But he can’t focus on the details of the last case, can’t seem to wrap his mind around Magnussen; no, he can only think about what this is doing to John.

The likelihood of seeing the man again is miniscule, perhaps Mycroft will pull some strings, he knows he’ll only have a few hours outside these four walls before he’s rushed off to Easter Europe for their mission. He’s not blind, he knows this was the opportunity they had been waiting for, to get him back out on the field, back under their control.

He and the Alpha were going to be separated once again and he almost broke down into hysteria at the thought. He knew this, though, had planned it. That is why he had created this distance, which is why he encouraged John to absolve things with Mary. He had selflessly tried to push them together and it failed.

Then it had all crumbled for him at Appledore. He loves John. The man was everything; his weakness, his pressure point, his error in a completely human way. He was the Alpha to his Omega. His instinct was telling him that he needs John.

The Omega was stirring, projecting a fleeting feeling, almost useless now; hope.

Mary was no long John’s pressure point.

He pushes that optimism away. He was leaving and John would be alone. He knew the Alpha suffered the first time he’d left and he could not fathom what John will do this time. He shudders inward at the thought of those blue eyes dimming in loneliness once again.

He hates it and his damaged nature, this inner Omega instinct, its pacing, deeply troubled by the prospect of being taken away from its home, being separated from its Alpha for a second time. It was uneasy about his instinct and the incoming missions. He hated the missions the first time and he’s sure to despise them still. Too predictable for his taste. He’d rebelled enough from them to treat him like a liability, and he was. He was never one to simply roll over and take orders, yet they continued to use him as such.

He was not like other Omega’s and he never would be. His mind had always been able to curb and control the natural instinct, even in heat. Briefly, he allowed a small smile to settle over his lips; John could attest to that.

His thoughts still as he hears the door rattle open. Mycroft, looking haggard, enters, coming to stand in the middle of the room, hands sliding into his pockets.

Sherlock does not raise his eyes from the reflective surface of the table, “So will it be solitary confinement or a room with a view?”

The older man’s eyes narrow, “You know very well the penitentiary would endure daily rioting if you even set foot within its walls.”

He grins; the picture was almost funny, “Are they giving me the six month undercover assignment?”

Mycroft bows his head; his manner is soft, “Yes.”

Sherlock clicks the handcuffs, testing their give; he’d debated escaping them but thought better of it, “I guess the youngest was happy.”

He raises his head, looking at the metal walls around them, “Not so much. He’s uncomfortable of the idea of sending you on this mission as well.  He can’t be a voice in your ear, as it were.”

He straightens on the chair, “Fatal. I guess my utility has run out, hmm?”

Mycroft’s eyes sharpen coming to rest on Sherlock. They bore into him, reading him, seeing things that he himself cannot even deduce. Startled at the raw feeling that’s overcome him; he leans back as a frown settling over his face. His voice is quiet when he asks, “What is it?”

His tone has nothing to do with the significance of the words, “I will miss you.”

What did he mean by that?

His eyes watch as the older man turns to open the door, his voice is flat when he states, “An East wind is coming Sherlock.”

Suddenly Mycroft is a teenager before him, the curl of his lip was cruel, “It’s coming to get you,” rings in his ears.

He blinks away the memory.

In the present, Mycroft shuts the metal door and he is alone once again.

The feeling of doubt once again surfaces and this time he agrees with his instinct.

*

It was not until they had arrived at the airfield that Mycroft tells him he had pulled some strings. He was going to see John one final time and then it was off to a briefing in Poland.

He watches at the black security car pulls up and then John alone is getting out.

He turns to Mycroft, watching John approach him out of the peripheral of his eye, “Since this is likely to be the last conversation I’ll have with John would you mind giving us a moment?” He hears John startle at that, but ignores it, he can’t allow emotions to break him, at least not yet, not when there was so many eyes on him.

Mycroft looks surprised, then again he’s never felt fully comfortable in the fact that his Omega brother was so attached to other and an Alpha at that. It’s not that Mycroft mistrusted John, he’s told Sherlock as much, it’s just he never wanted to see his brother restrained by instinct and sentiment.

If only he knew.

Nodding, Mycroft moves away, giving them what little privacy he could muster. 

John begins, “So here-“

“You need a flat,” Sherlock cuts him off, voice indifferent, keeping everything at bay.

Confusion clouds his face, “Yes-“

“I’ve already set the paperwork aside, you can have it. I want you to have it. 221B, that is.”

“Yeah, I, but what about you? Where are you going exactly? What is all this?” he asks, indicating the plane and airfield around them. The wind blows and Sherlock can smell him, anxiety.

“John it’s, that is,” The Omega is restless and it’s starting to hit him, the full weight of this mission and what it could mean for him, “Undercover work in East Europe. Six months.”

John’s eyes are hopeful, “So you’ll be back then?”

Sherlock can’t look at him as he answers, instead he lowers his head, appeasing both of their second genders, “Who knows?”

There is a pause before John speaks, his voice is distant. “You’re leaving me again.”

Sherlock raises his head to meet the others blue eyed gaze, the words don’t come to him.

“You did it before. Two years.”

“Yes, I know.” He answers, mind reeling at what he wants to say. “Sorry.”

John goes quiet, sadness overcoming his face. Sherlock can see the redness around the Alpha’s eyes and he can’t take it anymore, he has to tell him. “John, I want you to know, I’ve been a fool” He takes a deep breath, “I’ve meant to say always and never had. That is, never had the courage to say before but I want you to know now; I love you.”

Sherlock meets those wide blue eyes and grins at the shocked expression.

“I regret not telling you, but then again being bonded did not necessarily mean affection.” He pauses, eyes darting away before coming back to John’s, “I can’t say I’m any better than Mary. We both were selfish to you. I only wish you happiness now. I’m sorry you couldn’t have that with either of us.

John blinks, absorbing the information and Sherlock shuffles, unsure of how the Alpha will react. He’s afraid of what the other man will say but he can’t do anything, not now, now when he’s one step away from leaving once again.

John looks away and then back and his face is determined, “Okay,” John begins voice cracking, “Course you tell me _know._ Sherlock, you may be the best man I know but you are completely blind.”

He gives a humorless laugh. “Christ, look at you! You’re amazing. The things you do, the things you see, what other people can’t.” His voice drops and he looks away again, “Mary can’t make me happy, not now. Sherlock-” John breaks off, catching his gaze before heaving a sigh, “I love you too. The bond was everything to me; I never stopped caring for you when it dissolved. I’ve always loved you.” His voice becomes higher, “I still can’t believe you chose to tell me this _now_.”

Sherlock smiles despite his growing melancholy. John loves him. He never dared to assume. A pain blossoms across his eyes, he can’t allow himself to break down but his voice is strained, “I’m sorry, John.”

Tears come to John eyes, and that weak Omega part of him whines at the unfairness of it all. If he allows himself a physical touch he didn’t think he could let go, not now, especially not now. Yes, they were both fools. Neither of them fully understanding the lengths they would go.

We have killed, Sherlock thinks. We’ve killed for each other, to keep the other safe. That was the game they played and it was the most dangerous game.

A shadow covers John’s face and he shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, “The game is over then.”

Sherlock straightens in determination. “The game is never over, John.”

John gives a short laughs, clearly not believing him, their gaze catches and holds. In that moment Sherlock wants to reach out, a final connection, but Mycroft is walking towards them, and he feels like a lamb off to slaughter.

*

On the airplane he allows the tears, welcomes them. They are almost grounding. He does not sob, won’t allow it to consume him. He feels the tremors in his shoulders, but he forces his gaze outside, feeling the rise of the aircraft. He breathes deep, placating his emotions, and closes his eyes.

Suddenly, he’s handed a phone.

The tiny voice he hears sounds almost relieved, “Hello, little brother. How is the exile going?”

“I’ve not ever reached altitude, Mycroft.” Was this a joke, a cruel taunt?

“Well, I certainly hope you’ve learned your lesson. As it turns out, you’re needed.”

He’s jolted out of his melancholy, “Oh, for God’s sake. What is it now?”

Before Mycroft can answer, he hears something, a voice that is fluctuating and mechanical. His instinct flares in uncertainty. He knows that voice. His tone is leery and beyond his control. “What is that?”

Mycroft laughs, “It’s a good thing you’re coming in from the East, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I used a lot of dialogue from “His Last Vow” but I have a good reason! I wanted this chapter/the end of series 3 to prelude to my next story that starts right where this one lets off. I have my own speculations/theories that’ll be intertwined with the A/O/B element. 
> 
> There are no coincidences after all!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed bringing my fantasy to life. Thank you for your kind words, encouragements, and kudos. Until next time, lovelies. 
> 
> You can expect a few things from the next part of the series. Here is a small preview: Instincts and dynamics will be explored, we'll be finding out the other Holmes brother, a tricky card game were the deuces are always wild, a keep-a-way game turned deadly, an empty theater with at least one actor present, bringing to light old memories and moments, and maybe, just maybe Sherlock and John starting something new!
> 
> Keep a look out!


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